One Hundred Reasons Read online

  Her eyes drifted to her employee file. “I worked there for four years before I transferred to this ward a little over two years ago.”

  “Why the transfer? Most people don’t go from birth to death in their career choices.”

  Mr. Cross scribbled notes on a blank page. Her heart rate sped. Would this be her first negative report? When her grandmother died, no one questioned her tears because Dotty Nichols was a relative.

  “I transferred so I could care for my grandmother, who was in this ward. It gave me more time with her.” It was a hard sell to Mr. Cross’s predecessor. Mrs. Stankowski had denied her initial request, saying it wasn’t recommended, but eventually she gave in to Sage’s endless pleading. Sage had worn her down with numerous calls and visits and notes.

  Disapproval etched in the lines on his forehead. “And you stayed because . . . ?”

  Sage fidgeted in the chair. “I wanted to make a difference in the last minutes of a person’s life.”

  He lifted the edge of her employee folder and let it fall closed. His dour expression remained stiff as his hand rubbed across his stubbly jaw. Thin lips drew thinner with his frown. “I don’t think you’re a good fit for my ward.” If disappointment had a soundtrack, it would be Mr. Cross’s sinking tone—every word an octave lower until only a vibration remained.

  The floor felt like it opened up and sucked Sage into a dark pit below. “You don’t want people who care on your ward?” She gripped the arms of the chair so hard, she was certain she’d dent the wood.

  Mr. Cross twisted his wedding ring in circles and stared at his wife’s picture as if to seek her counsel. “Caring is not the problem. You’re a good nurse, but not everyone is wired for death. In this ward, it happens with regularity. You have to be able to turn your emotions off like a switch.” He moved his index finger up and down mimicking the motion. “I’ve talked to some of your coworkers, and they say every patient’s death affects you similarly. You can’t save them, Sage.”

  A muscle twitched at the corner of her eye. “Obviously, because Bea died,” she said, an unintended edge tingeing her voice. In her mind, she listed several dozen patients whose passings had pulled at her heartstrings. Her shoulders drooped. This situation didn’t look good.

  Mr. Cross opened his drawer and pulled out a familiar piece of pink stationery. “I had the privilege of talking to Bea yesterday morning. I can see why you liked her.”

  “She was an amazing woman.” Sage closed her eyes for a second and pictured Bea Bennett’s white hair and wise brown eyes.

  “Do you know what the last thing she said was before I left her room?” He turned the pink envelope in his hands.

  Sage shook her head. She reluctantly opened her eyes and let go of her vision of a smiling Bea. “I don’t have a clue.”

  He stood and turned his back to her. He looked out the window into the night where the fog moved past, slow and thick. “She told me to fire you.”

  “What?” His statement was like a dagger to her gut. Sage felt a strong connection to Bea and couldn’t believe the woman would suggest such a thing. “She did not.” Her voice filled with indignant denial. Sage grabbed more Kleenex to absorb the new flood of tears.

  “She did. In fact, she begged me to let you go.” He turned around and leaned on the desk, dropping the pink envelope to the dark surface. “Not because you’re a bad nurse. She thought you were skilled and wonderful.”

  Her thoughts were in disarray. “I’m confused.”

  “She told me this job would kill you. That your heart was big but couldn’t hold all the sorrow and pain that came with a job that ended in death.”

  “That’s not true. I love my job.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. She didn’t love her job. She loved the people. Maybe she loved them too much, because every death chipped away at her. Little pieces of herself that she gave only to her patients that died when they did. “Are you firing me?”

  Mr. Cross shook his head. “On what grounds? Caring too much? It’s not a crime, and it’s not against your contract.” He looked down at the pink envelope where “Sage” was written in perfect penmanship. “However, I will honor a part of Bea’s last request.” He slid the envelope across the desktop. “She asked that I give this to you after her passing. You can’t hope to save everyone. All you can do is pray that at the end of the day, you make a difference. You made a difference in her life, Sage.”

  She pulled the envelope to her chest. “Still feels like you’re letting me go.”

  He pursed his lips and shifted them back and forth. “You abandoned your job today. You were missing in action. You can’t do that. Every minute is a minute where anything can happen.” He sank back into the soft leather chair that folded around him in a hug that Sage envied. “That’s not who you are as a professional and not who I need as a caregiver. Rather than mete out disciplinary action, I’m giving you a professional courtesy. I’m requesting your transfer from my department. You’re on unpaid administrative leave until another position opens.”

  The wind left Sage’s lungs. He may have given her a professional courtesy, but it still left her without a job and a paycheck. She wanted to stomp her feet and cry and argue and beg. Instead, she nodded and whispered, “Thank you.” Logic told her he was right to let her go, but it stung to know she’d failed the one group of people she wanted to help the most—her patients.

  “You have vacation days. Use them. Search your soul for the truth. Is this where you want to be in ten, twenty, thirty years?”

  Sage rose from the chair and turned to leave.

  “Bea said your life was wasted on the dying. That a girl like you should focus on living. I don’t disagree.” Sage left Mr. Cross’s office feeling worse than she had when she arrived. She approached the empty nurses’ station, empty because Terri was probably doing the job Sage had failed to complete. She gathered her belongings. Before she left for home, she peeked in on Clive, hoping to say goodbye, but his light was out. Except for the beep of monitors, his room was silent. He would be another regret.

  She looked around the ward for the last time before she walked into the elevator and worked her way back to her car. She sat behind the steering wheel for endless minutes, wondering what in the hell she would do. She tucked the pink envelope into the side pocket of her purse and pulled her SUV into the night. In her rearview mirror, the hospital that had been the largest part of her life became smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared.

  Chapter Three

  Cannon Bishop wiped down the counter of his bar. He fisted the damp rag when Melanie Saunders, a woman he’d shared a few fun times with, put another coin in the jukebox. He didn’t have to wait to hear the song; he knew it would be B-13, “Strip It Down.” She’d played it three times tonight, as if he didn’t get the hint she wanted to be naked on the cot in the storage room after the first two times she played it. The truth was, she wanted to be naked anywhere he’d have her. He now regretted the few times he’d indulged his need and given in to her desire.

  Mel waggled her ass. She was a nice woman, but she was looking for something different from what Cannon could offer, which was little. She wanted long-term, heart-pounding love. He wasn’t capable, given that he’d barricaded his heart behind a wall of steel years ago.

  Dalton Black, the cook from Maisey’s diner, slammed an empty pitcher on the counter. “Fill ’er up.” He grabbed the bowl of nuts from the worn, wooden bar and returned to the pool table. He and a few of his buddies were determined to close the place down drinking beer and playing billiards.

  Sunday nights were slow at Bishop’s Brewhouse unless Dalton’s friends rode through town. They’d crowd around the pool table for hours, drink beer, and talk about crossing the country on their Harleys. Cannon listened to their stories and remembered a time when life was different. A stint in jail changed Dalton’s life. A death changed Cannon’s.

  He skimmed the foam off the top of the pitcher and delivered it to the four men. “Last
round.” Under the collection of neon beer signs, the men laughed and jeered at each other while Dalton fleeced his friends by running the table.

  Cannon returned to the bar and looked at Mel, who had gone back to her regular stool at the end of the counter. She’d been there all night, tracking his every move like a cat tracked a laser light. “You want me to get someone to walk you to your car?” He took her empty beer mug and put it in the sink. It floated on a blanket of suds for a few seconds before sinking to the bottom with a clunk.

  “Nah.” Doc Parker, the town’s resident physician, sat two stools down from her and answered Cannon when Mel didn’t. “I can walk myself.” He slid his glass forward and held up a finger. Doc Parker had a two-beer limit. He said it was enough to take the edge off his day, but not enough to hinder his ability to provide care.

  Cannon drew another lager and set it in front of his long-time friend and mentor. “I was talking to Mel. She’s got a long drive ahead of her.”

  “She new in town?” he asked.

  “You blind, old man? That’s Mel from Copper Creek, she comes in a few times a month.”

  “I’m not blind, but you may be, son.” He motioned for Cannon to come closer, and when he did, the old man whispered, “She’s looking for a different type of long ride than the one going back home. I may be old, but I’m not stupid, and I’m certainly not blind.” Doc cuffed him upside the head and laughed.

  Cannon walked around the bar and offered Mel his hand. A tentative smile graced her lips when she threaded her fingers through his.

  “Come with me.” The second he spoke the wrong words he wanted to rip out his own tongue.

  “That was the aim.” She turned toward the back room while Cannon headed for the front door. Divergent paths separated their hands.

  Mel took a few seconds to figure out he wasn’t following and marched after him into the cold, cloudless night.

  “Dammit, Cannon, why do you keep avoiding me?” She stomped her foot and let her hands slide from her breasts to her hips like she was showcasing her goods. “What the hell is wrong with me?” She leaned against her rusted, red truck.

  “Look, Mel,” Cannon stopped in front of her. “I’ve been up front with you from the beginning. I’m not that guy—your guy.”

  “I know.” She lowered her head. “I know.” The fringe of her too-long bangs covered her eyes. “You’re not interested in a relationship. Just the benefits.”

  He brushed her blonde hair aside. The moonlight reflected off the tears glistening in the corners of her expressive brown eyes.

  “Did I ever offer you more?” God, he hoped she said no, because he’d always thought he’d been clear with her about the non-future of their relationship.

  “No. You were straightforward.”

  The breath he held burst past his lips. A silent Thank God filled his thoughts. “Did I ever take more than I gave?”

  She smiled, and maybe even blushed, but it was hard to tell. The only lights on Main Street came from the bar’s neon “Open” sign, the stars, and the sliver of a moon that hung overhead.

  “You know you didn’t. That’s why this is so hard. I want more.”

  Cannon knew what wanting more felt like. He’d wanted more for a long time. The building behind Mel was his future. The bar was his life now that he’d come back to Aspen Cove. More wasn’t in the cards for him.

  “You deserve more, but it will never come from me.” He pressed his lips to her cheek and stepped back. “You should go.”

  She reached out to touch his face. “I could have been good for you.”

  He opened her truck door and helped her inside. “You’re too good for me.”

  He waited until she drove away before he walked back inside. In the bar, Doc was halfway through his last beer.

  “I hope you let her down easy.” He pulled the mug to his lips and took a long, slow drink.

  “She’ll be all right.”

  Doc shook his head. “Puppy brains.”

  “Thirty-two’s long past puppy status.”

  “You’re not an island, Cannon. A man needs a mate. She had all the right parts.” Doc Parker took a pen from his pocket and drew a grid of nine on his cocktail napkin. It was how he left the bar every night. If Doc beat Cannon at tic-tac-toe, the beer was on the house. If Cannon won, the beer was on Doc.

  Cannon grabbed a pen for himself. He was happy to play for a beer with the man who had been more of a father than his own these past years.

  Doc marked an X in the center. “Can’t believe that Bea is gone.” His voice was low. Not in tone, but in a volume that reflected loss. Doc hadn’t been sweet on Bea Bennett, but they had been friends since grade school.

  “The town won’t be the same.” Cannon turned the napkin around, as if seeing it from a different angle would make a difference.

  “She made sure of that,” Doc said.

  Cannon marked an O in the top right corner, and Doc marked an X beneath him. “You’re talking in code.” Doc always talked in circles. It was his way. He’d never tell a patient they were overweight; he’d tell them the trail around the lake was a nice walk this time of year, or he’d say Maisey’s Diner served the best oatmeal in town. They served the only oatmeal in town, and it happened to lower cholesterol.

  “She had me mail a letter before she passed.”

  Cannon didn’t care much to talk about Bea. He didn’t understand how God could take away the best people in his life and leave his father. “Drink up, Doc. I’m getting tired.” He put an O on the left center row, and Doc followed with an X on the lower right. Every night, it ended the same. Tied, and a tie went to the patron.

  “You tire too easily. That’s why that pretty little blonde number is heading back to Copper Creek alone. It’s why you curl up by yourself in that lake house each night.”

  Cannon hated when Doc got all preachy and philosophical. Not because Doc was wrong, but because he always managed to hit Cannon’s issue on the head. He was lonely. That was a fact, but there was no easy cure for loneliness.

  Doc finished his beer and slammed the mug upside down on the scarred wooden bar.

  Cannon marked an O in the bottom left-hand corner. Doc marked his X in the top left-hand column and won the game.

  “You gave up too easily.” Doc pulled a few ones out of his wallet and set them on the table. He always left a tip, regardless of the outcome.

  “I told you, I’m tired.”

  Doc looked around the bar. Dalton and his friends were hanging up the pool cues and pulling out cash.

  “Where’s your old man?”

  “I’m not my father’s keeper.” Cannon had assumed the role years ago when his mother died, his brother left, and his father drowned his sorrows in a bottle of vodka. He’d failed miserably when it came to his dad. “You can’t save a man determined to kill himself.”

  “I’ve been telling you that for years.” The old man reached out his hand for a friendly shake. It never ended there. He always pulled Cannon in for a hug, a task made more difficult across the expanse of a wide wooden bar, but not impossible.

  Dalton and his friends walked out. Doc followed. He stopped, straddled the threshold of the bar and turned back toward Cannon. “Change is coming, Cannon. You best prepare for it.”

  When the old man walked out the door, Cannon locked up behind him. “‘Change is coming,’” he mocked. He set the chairs on top of the tables and started his nightly cleaning routine. “It’s hard enough to keep up with the status quo.” There was no way he’d be able to deal with change, so he went about his routine, hoping life in Aspen Cove would remain constant. Thirty minutes later, with the bar cleaned, he locked up and walked down the street to B’s Bakery. In the crease of the door was the business card of a land developer who’d been nosing around since Bea died. He plucked it free and tore it to pieces, like the dozens he’d found there before.

  Doc was right. Change would come to Aspen Cove. It was only a matter of time before the cabin
s around the lake became hotels and the stores along Main Street became boutiques. He didn’t have to like it. He didn’t have to support it. He’d do everything he could to fight it.

  Chapter Four

  When Sage walked into the house at just after two in the morning, she found Otis in the basement, lying in the center of her bed. He hopped down and stood in front of her. His tail wagged so fiercely, it moved his entire hind end. How he stayed standing considering he was a lopsided tripod surprised Sage.

  Despite the tears that threatened to spill, she couldn’t help but smile and laugh a little when he rolled onto his back for another belly rub.

  “I wish my life was as simple as yours, buddy.” She scratched his stomach, and he groaned. “How about some tea?”

  Otis bolted up and took off for the top of the stairs, where she knew he’d wait. The word tea to a dog must have sounded like treat, and that was a word he recognized.

  Sage changed into sweats and an oversize T-shirt. She slipped the pink envelope out of the side pocket of her purse and brought it with her.

  At the top of the stairs, Otis danced with excitement. They entered the kitchen with wants, or maybe it was needs. Sage wanted a cup of calming chamomile tea, while Otis appeared as if he needed a treat. Once the needs and wants were satisfied, they met up on the couch, where Sage stared at the envelope she turned in her hand and weighed in her palm. More than a few pages for certain.

  “Why do you think she wrote me a letter?” She wrapped the brute of a dog in a hug, but he was already out. His deep breaths turned into a soft snore. While two in the morning was the beginning of the day for Sage, it was right in the middle of Otis’s twenty-three hour nap.

  Fear mixed with vulnerability made her stomach clench and twist. She pressed the envelope to her chest and curled up like a baby next to Otis. His fur lent the warmth her body needed. His presence made her feel less alone.